Things that are bad if you're a teenager on driving probation.
Summer.
Music with a beat.
windows that roll down.
windows that are non-exsistant.
music from when you were twelve.
getting a kick out of going around corners at twice the recommended speed.
road trips.
Cops with nothing worthwhile to do.
School Zones.
owning cars.
split shifts out of town.
enjoying driving.
Life.
Summer.

I sat up rubbing my eyes. Ahh, evening naps on the couch at times when I could hardly keep my eyes open any longer. I told myself I shouldn't make a habit of it. Because it throws my sleep schedule even more out of wack then it already is. And it's a pointless waste of time, this lying about with ones eyes close. I also told myself I should go lap swimming. As had been my intent for a while. When a girl is used to hours of judo and hockey a week summer can be slow.
"So, Kris, if it's not past 7:30 we'll go." I smirked to myself in my brilliance. For it was most definitely at least eight. But my faithful clock defied my conclusion. Dang.
"Ah yes. Lap swim is only two days a week. We shall check our schedule and go if it's today." Happy with my brillaince I entered the bathroom (where I keep my schedule for some random reason) and flipped through. What? No esta possible. But it was possible. It proudly told me I could attend lap swims on Mondays.
So I loaded up my old lady bag. No swim cap. No goggles. Just about forgot my towel, and zipped down.
I've never been big on the lap type of swimming. I love messing about in the water, any random lake pastimes are fine. But the idea of paddling back and forth in stuff that's more chlorine then water never much appealed to me. But, it would be good for me, no? Good for my knees, about which I worry. Good for my joints in general. All of which worry me. It was an old person's sport.
Ten minutes later I slid into my lane. Only two other people showed up. Two big buff hairy men. Their muscles bulging in anticipation as they snapped their goggles into place...
Oops.
I began two swim. Probably at a rate of more then a lap a minute. By the fifth lap I was ready to quit. Oh good grief. I have got to go longer then these five minutes of my hour. Man, I paid good money for the opportunity. So I struggled on.
Front crawl, back crawl, breast stroke, jelly fish. Up and down the pool. Well on either side of my the two buff young men, and the buff older man (who'd joined us) whizzed by in solid front crawl. I began breathing loud enough I wondered if the guy on the lifeguard chair could here me. No doubt that smirk was in humour at my attempts.
I began to breathe in water as I desperately tried for air. Having been a little kid, I know what all the little kids before us were doing in there. Pace yourself Kris. Just take it slowly. Well, let me tell you. It's a deadly trap. The slower you go the longer you have to go between breaths. The sport of the elderly. Pah.
However. All's well that ends well. I kept up my tiring rythem for the whole hour. And suspect I could've keep going. Although I started breathing every couple strokes on my front crawl. The better news, all the big guys got out before me. They took time to stretch out their tired limbs. Score one for the teenager!
front crawl, back crawl, breast stroke, jelly fish.
At last I emerged. Wet and tired. Red rimmed eyes from prolonged exposure to too much chlorine. But no bruises! No crude talk in the change room. No smashed up knees or aching elbows from arm bars.
But I'm still sticking with judo. The senior citizens (or big buff guys) can keep their lap swims for now.

Dude. Don't you love it?
Once again we salute essy and thank her for her creative blog designs. Long live geeks! Cause we probably wouldn't without them (not that you're a geek, ess. But you sure do a mean template).

Grease stained hands. Makes me feel like I've been doing something. Although in reality I was just swatting mosquitos and getting in the way well Dad worked on my car. Pretty much all I did was the tire.
The manual always makes things seem simpler then they really are. And that's pretty sad, since to just read it is extremally complicated to me.
I wish I was more mechanically minded then I am.

This morning I learned a lesson. I learned several things, but only one lesson. The lesson was this.
Never risk your life for your job.
Are you exaggerating, I hear you ask. Oh, probably. But I was still left pretty shook up.
The lesson proceeded as so.
"Alright class. Today we're learning through experiences. Please bring four cows into the parlour and give them shots. That's right. We must make sure that all new transition cows have had their shots, musn't we? Now that we have done that, we have three cows remaining outside that also need their shots. Who can tell me what we do when we have three cows left over, since the parlour holds four? Yes, you in the cutoffs? That's right! We hold one cow back. O.k. students. Let the cows go, but please stand up by the gate and stop the last cow."
So I, being an eager student of life bounced up the steps and stood in front of the gate.
Now in order for you to understand the next steps in my lesson (which I hope you will also learn from so you never have to learn it yourself) you must understand that after I let the cows go they walk down a cement alley with bars on one side and a wall on the other.
I opened this particular gate and watched three cows walk by. I kept my eye faithfully on the last one and when she was at the gate, meaning the others were through, I jumped in front of her waving my hands and commanding her to stop.
ninety-eight times out of a hundred when you do this the cow will be sufficiently scared of you so that she'll stop. This cow, however, had just been jabbed with three needles. Meaning she wasn't in a nice calm mood. She was as determined to get past me as I was determined to hold her back. She was bigger.
I could've stepped to the side when I saw she was going to be stubborn. But sometimes I've had success in making them take a few steps backwards. So I kept at it. She pushed me out into the alley before I realized it was too late. I was trapped between her and the other three cows. And she was in a hurry. I've had cows push past me in the alleys a couple times before. And it ,hurts! They scrape you along the bars. Well this cow was far pregnant. And I wasn't too sure how her trying to pass me would go over.
In the next few moments I can not tell you exactly what happened. It was the rush of adrenaline. The push of more important things. But you look back and can't say exactly what happened.
In my attempts to get away I fell, or something. All I know is I was on the ground with a fifteen hundred pound beast rapidly pushing on behind me. I was dragged or pushed or I just crawled a few feet, well under the hooves of the animal. I was in and open space (no bars to the ground) and then I had the presence of mind, and speed of reaction, to roll under the parallel bars, leaving me safe.
I was able to get up and walk away. But in a circumstance like that it's not guaranteed. I was shaking, and, although not in actual shock, it was like a mild form of it. I walked around saying, "Man, Kris. Oh man." and other forms of that phrase as well as telling myself it just wasn't worth it.
I finished the three cows and got home to bed. You know how people keep replaying things in their mind? It was like that 'till I got home, and managed to fall asleep.
In going over my injuries afterwards, I have a scraped base of spine, and scraped elbow, and just mild scrapes and bruises in other areas. The worst is above my ankle where I have a decent swelling bruise. I'm convinced the cow stepped there (although not with her full weight, since they never put all their weight on one foot). Although at the time you're not thinking, "Oh, look, the cow just stepped on me". You're too pumped with adrenaline and more important things at mind to feel pain. But if she had to step anywhere, that's probably the best possible place.
I was lucky. Or, maybe I should say, blessed. I've been hurt at work before. But never that close to really serious injuries. Although it's all in the turn of fate.
"That's fine class. That will be all for today. Classes on job-related issues will continue tonight. Please make sure you're all on time. And have a good day!"

The other night I hauled my guitar home. The D string was broken. And I had yet to perfect the art of changing guitar strings. Hang on. I still have yet to perfect it. Oh well. I'm a whole lot closer.
So since I had the whole set, and it's the D that always breaks I set about changing all of them. After a small amount of instruction from those, or that, which has far far more experience. The type of musical experience I'm unlikely to ever accumulate unless I start "playing" a heck of a lot more then I do. Also the type of ability I'm unlikely to have no matter what I do. Short of some futuristic operation to give a person oodles of musical talent coupled with hours and hours of practice.
Anyway, I was struggling with the last string. Dad had retired to the schoolroom where he was working on his second love, speaking hobby wise. His video editing. I called out, "Dad?"
"Mmm?"
"Did you buy my guitar new?"
"No, why?"
"Curious."
"The guy I got it from told me it was a 'screamin' deal'. Although I'm not sure how much of a screamin' deal it really was."
"Really? How old were you?"
"Oh. About twenty."
"Twenty?"
"Yup. That's the guitar that went across Canada with me."
"Really? This is the guitar you took across Canada?!" We spoke of the adventure he embarked on in his early free-to-do-as-he-pleased days. The time he hitched to Manitoba with my Aunt, also free and adventurous then, and then continued on to the east coast for the heck of it. With his necessary guitar on his back.
As far as recent history is concerned, it's also the guitar that made two trips to Mexico with us. Perched above my parent's bed in the incredibly beat-up case I still keep it in. And the same one I found on the kitchen table the morning of my seventeenth birthday. The one that had spent years hanging above his chair waiting for when he got home.
I felt so...I don't know. How does one describe emotions? Imagine you were turning seventeen. You were a new girl in the guitar sense. You found your Dad's guitar for you. Like he was sharing a part of his music, his biggest part of who he is, with you. And giving you an instrument shaped through years of playing, and starting you out on the one you first started plucking on. Imagine that. I'm sure that's not how I felt, since I'm not you. But that's what it was to me.
Let me be clear. He is not the type of man to live his dreams through his kids. To push them into his ideas of success. Or what have you. But I don't doubt he would be happy to see one of his kids interested in playing.
I have not done my guitar justice. Yet. Dad thinks it's because he plays it often and plays it well that the rest of us never got very far, comparatively. Guitar is a frustrating instrument to try learn if you've not got a lot of patience. So to have his years of dedication to compare ourselves to...
I don't even notice when he plays guitar. It's just been a so-often present sound somewhere in the background of our lives. Some nights he would bring it down and play us to sleep. Now when people comment on it I'm like, "Oh, yeah. I guess he is playing. Yeah. It's nice." Some of the songs he wrote are just engrained. So much so that over the last couple years I've still been finding out that some of them are his. Songs that were just always there.
I was pleased to learn some of the story behind my guitar. I love things with history, and stories. Probably because I love history and stories. I love my guitar. It's something I'm proud to own. It's lived through a few scratches. But it's still the nicest one, if not the most expensive, I've ever played. Now if only I was half decent enough to be proud to play it.

*sigh*
O.k. Life has been busy. But nothing that I'll tell you or that would interest you too much.
As a note, someone pointed out to me that I tell people what they think. It's true. I do. But I'd never really noticed before. So now I'll probably be more aware of it. But I doubt that means I'll quit. But you don't care, *G*.
I bought myself an absolutely wicked knife. It was twenty-five bucks at a garage sale. I snagged it for twenty. In my mind I have the perfect knife for myself in mind. The one I would wear on my hip as I travel the world. The one that I would cut up mangos fresh off the tree with, trim my hair with, and generally make good use off. Not to mention it would make me feel a lot more secure well hitchhiking from Saragossa to Venice. This knife isn't quite perfect. It's a little too big. The blade is just about as long as my wrist to my fingertips. And pretty heavy duty. But it's a cool knife all the same.
I worked and slept all Canada day. I'd stayed up the whole night before and then work was heck. Morning shift took five hours. Wacked! And then when I finally crawled into bed and was just asleep my phone rang. But that's o.k. It was really important. Wrong number. And then when I was just about asleep again the j-witnesses came knocking. But amazingly I never did feel too dead. And some things are more important then a good nights sleep. At least when you're young and tough.
I celebrated hardly at all. Mostly just 'cause there was nothing to do. But I'm not quarter as patriotic as I used to be. We're in pretty nice trouble politically. Too bad, 'cause this is still a pretty awesome country other then that. God keep our land! Now let's hold up our end, eh?
I did stick on my best temporary maple leaf tattoo. I also caught the fireworks. Yes to small town spirit! It was actually a really good show. The best I've ever seen here with the possible exception of the millennium. I kept thinking, o.k. grand finale, No? Well right, here it is. This'll be it. k, here's the Grand finale. But then they just kept on firing. I walked back in the warm night air (it actually wasn't raining) wearing my jean jacket none-the-less because it has an awesome flag patch on the sleeve.
What else? Well, my first stint of roomating is over for a bit. It was odd, but worked out. I have to start avoided screaming songs out at midnight. Not to mention my stubborn habit of talking to myself. One morning Cor and I were in our respective rooms (she'd come to work with me) and I started laughing to myself. I was laughing hard, but quietly. And then Cor asks what was so funny. Shoot.
By the way, what was so funny, when I knocked on her door that morning I heard, in a moan, "Just go to work by yourself Kris." Heh. The girl's a bit out of it if you try talking to her at the wrong time.
One evening we were bored and took off up the mountain. We just wanted to see if we could walk from the road and end up in something resembling wilderness. We succeeded. Except the dog barking continually somewhere not too far away. We also climbed the greatest tree, ate saskatoons, and jumped through long grass.
Oh yeah. A cow bit me. Dang! Not really intentionally. But she was being horrible. Horrible I tell you! I was trying to drench her, which means I was sticking my hand in her mouth anyway. But I won. Even if the thing has more muscle in her neck then I have in my whole body.
I named three calves today. I needed a "T" name, and a "A" and "J" name. We have way to many Js on the farm. I settled on Turk, Afro, and Jungle. Exciting, no?
K. This is getting bad. Joel can beat me at ping pong. My rusty childhood tricycle is my front deck. My Eagles tape went missing. I'd just bought it at a garage sale for fifteen cents. And it was good.
Anything else you want to know?
See. I was right. Nothing that would interest you. And I'm hardly scratching the surface.